


don't say it was a dream

by viverella



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, a year in the life, the kind where it happens so slowly you don't even realize it till later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21866698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viverella/pseuds/viverella
Summary: When Fukuroudani loses, an inch away from winning at nationals during his second year, Akaashi feels something shatter in his chest. He looks over to his left, looks at Bokuto, at this boy he’s spent nearly two years privately promising the world to, and thinksbut this was supposed to be your year.Thinksbut we were supposed to take this team there together.Thinksbut what was it all for if not for this?( A year of learning and growing and finding that maybe, the best kind of victories to be had aren't things that can be won. )
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 38
Kudos: 402





	don't say it was a dream

**Author's Note:**

> if you follow me on tumblr you know I've completely lost my mind over these two and, well, I guess this fic was only a matter of time, really. this is so cliché and it's becoming abundantly clear to me that I don't know how to write anything anymore except for this specific flavor of like Sports Anime Redemption Fic and I'm honestly growing increasingly nervous about posting this because it's probably the least original thing I've ever done. but uh. I've recently fallen in love w these two and bokuto's recent return to the manga reminded me that I've been sitting on this fic for a while, putting off editing it and such (though no, I'm not caught up on the manga, so apologies for any canon inconsistencies). so. consider this me trying to feel out how to write these two properly. for like 10k words. because brevity? I don't know her.
> 
> also let it be known that bokuto and fukuroudani won nationals In My Heart but alas Plot™ needed to happen so...... I'm sorry lmao
> 
> enjoy!!

When Fukuroudani loses, an inch away from winning at nationals during his second year, Akaashi feels something shatter in his chest. He looks over to his left, looks at Bokuto, at this boy he’s spent nearly two years privately promising the world to, and thinks _but this was supposed to be your year._ Thinks _but we were supposed to take this team there together._ Thinks _but what was it all for if not for this?_

The weather that day is beautiful, crisp blue sky and just enough bite in the air to feel refreshing and bright. It’s Akaashi’s favorite kind of weather, when it’s cool but just warm enough that his perpetually cold fingers aren’t stiff anymore, but as he stands outside the gymnasium, closing his eyes and tipping his face up to catch the light, he finds that there’s no joy in the warm rays casting out around him. He’d left after the match in a rush, having excused himself quickly after thanking their coach and the managers and everyone from the school who came to support them but before he could see anyone cry, and he’d almost feel guilty about it, about running off on the team and shirking his duties as vice-captain like he never lets himself do, but he’d felt the familiar pinpricks of doubt and dread creeping up the length of his spine, and for as much as he tries and tries to be the kind of person who’s able to hold himself together when it counts, there are some things, he thinks, that he might still not know how to face. 

Akaashi’s startled out of his spiral by a firm hand slapping down on his back, and when his eyes fly open, he finds Bokuto smiling at him. It’s less broad and bright than his usual kilowatt grin but no less warm and real as Bokuto slings his arm across Akaashi’s shoulders and tips his head back to look up at the sky too, like he’s seeing off a dream that’ll remain, always, just out of reach. If not for the slight rings of red around Bokuto’s eyes, Akaashi could almost believe that it’s any other day, like this game doesn’t mark the end of Bokuto’s high school volleyball career, like come Monday, Bokuto will still be there, badgering Akaashi to toss for him after practice. 

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi blurts out without meaning to, staring at the odd mixture of pride and heartbreak and wistful nostalgia for something that was their present instead of their past not half an hour ago on Bokuto’s face. 

Bokuto blinks and turns to look at Akaashi. “What for?” he asks, and Akaashi knows he means it. Bokuto smiles, just a touch brighter, and says, earnest to a fault, “You were perfect. As long as you keep playing like that, you’ll definitely win next year.”

 _Next year_ , Akaashi thinks, and the words hit him like a wild animal crashing through his chest. Next year means new beginnings and a new team, means that Akaashi will hold the burden squarely on his own shoulders, and he thinks about what this team has become and wonders how they’re supposed to move on from this.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you there,” Akaashi says softly, and it’s a little more vulnerable than he usually lets himself be, but what are endings for, he supposes, if you can’t be a little honest. 

Bokuto shrugs and lowers his arm from Akaashi’s shoulders to shove his hands into his jacket pockets and look down at his feet. He looks a little lost and impossibly young, and Akaashi suddenly feels very cold. When Bokuto looks back up at him, the warm gold of his eyes are clouded over like the light that shines through them out into the world has been snuffed out, and Akaashi thinks about the dread that comes with the downswings of Bokuto’s moods on the court, thinks about how what everyone doesn’t know is that there exists in the world something worse. For someone who’s loomed so large in Akaashi’s life for the last two years, Bokuto looks hollow and small, and Akaashi would never say it aloud, but he hates it. 

“I’m sorry too,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi thinks that he’s never heard him be so quiet.  
  


* * *

  
Practice when the new week starts isn’t quiet by any means. Between the squeak of shoes across the hardwood floor and the rhythmic _thump_ of balls hitting the court and shouts back and forth ( _Left! Left!_ or _Cover!_ or _Nice kill!_ ), the gym is practically alive with sound, but Akaashi’s ears ring as if it were dead silent. The new members who’ve moved up to fill the spaces left behind by their third years are enthusiastic and energetic, committed just as much and as hard as anyone Akaashi’s ever played with here, but it lacks the boisterousness Akaashi’s gotten used to, the very specific brand of liveliness that’s become synonymous with a match well played. To anyone on the outside, it might almost seem like a welcome change, a slowing down of the pace to give them all room to breathe for a moment after such a whirlwind of a winter, but to Akaashi it feels stifling. 

After practice ends on his first official day as captain of the Fukuroudani volleyball club, Akaashi stays late like he always does to gather up stray balls and take down the net. 

“You really don’t have to do that,” Onaga says to him. “If you’re not doing any extra practice, just ask one of us first years to take care of clean up.”

Akaashi shrugs, going to retrieve a ball that rolled off into the corner at some point during practice. “It’s fine,” he says, wondering if this is a moment he should try for a reassuring smile. He’s not sure he really knows anymore what exactly to do, feeling a little like he’s got volumes of information in his head that have suddenly gone obsolete. “I’m used to it. It almost feels weird if I don’t.”

Onaga gives him an odd look but doesn’t press him on it, and Akaashi sends him off, brushing aside every protest and offer to help. For better or worse, this is his routine now. Tidy up the gym. Make a list of things to be done tomorrow. Lock up and head home. Except tonight, for the first time, it feels like there’s a piece of the puzzle missing, like there’s something hiding just outside of his peripheral vision, but he supposes that doesn’t bear thinking about.  
  


* * *

  
It takes about two weeks before the restlessness building up in Akaashi’s veins becomes too much to bear. He’s started feeling tense and edgy all day and even hours of practice do little to help. His teammates have started to notice, dividing their time between asking him if everything’s okay and calling him a drill sergeant for being so demanding during practice, and he has no idea why he can’t get his nerves to settle. Maybe it’s just the growing pains of having to build a new team essentially from the ground up, he thinks to himself on the sixteenth day. Maybe he’s just anxious about what this team will be able to do under his lead. 

On day twenty, Akaashi lingers after practice for the first time in weeks. He tidies up the gym as he always does as the others filter out, but instead of heading straight home like he should to study for the history exam he’s got coming up in a couple days, he slips on his sneakers and runs. He runs lap after lap around the building, trying and hoping and praying that it’ll do something to burn off this excess energy he has spilling out of him in waves. He runs until his legs burn and his lungs are screaming and then keeps going, like if he can just run for long enough, he can catch up to the thing that’s been eluding him. 

It’s probably good that he’s cut short before he can run himself into the ground, because as it is, he’ll probably already be feeling it tomorrow, and he tells himself that’s why his heart lurches in his chest when he hears his name ring out through the still air. 

“Akaashi?”

Akaashi freezes in his tracks at the familiar syllables, alternately lazily slurred together and carefully over-pronounced, always just left of being precisely the right ones, and stares, breathing hard, heart slamming against his ribcage. It’s late in the afternoon now, right on the cusp of evening, and campus is almost completely deserted, save for a few stragglers from this club or that like him, and Bokuto’s broad frame stands out starkly against the empty space. He’s still dressed in his uniform, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tie and blazer discarded and probably stuffed in the bottom of his bag in a way that makes Akaashi wince a little, and he’s smiling brightly at Akaashi like it’s any other day, like it hasn’t been weeks since Akaashi’s seen him, really seen him. True to form, in the days and weeks following their defeat at nationals, Bokuto had withdrawn, quiet and distant and scarce, and Akaashi had wanted to say something but he hadn’t known what, hadn’t known what could make up for that kind of loss. He’d wanted to look for Bokuto but couldn’t find him in any of the usual places between classes or during lunch or in the brief window after school and before practice, and Akaashi had kept getting caught up with his new captain’s duties besides and never quite found the time. So he’d texted Bokuto whatever encouragement he could think of and promised himself that he’d look harder next time and hoped it’d be good enough. There had been a little part of him that had worried that there exist some pits so deep that Bokuto can’t drag himself back out again, but Bokuto standing in front of him now is the same as he always is, cheery and warm as the setting sun. 

“Practice not hard enough for you?” Bokuto asks, teasing. 

Akaashi hides his laugh in a long exhale and bends to rest his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Bokuto’s question is mostly in jest, he knows, but he still chafes at not knowing the answer to such a simple question. 

“What are you still doing here?” Akaashi asks instead. “It’s pretty late.”

Bokuto shrugs. “Career counseling stuff, college and all that,” he says. Akaashi’s breath hitches in his throat and he tells himself it’s just from all the running. Bokuto rocks back on his heels. “Thought I’d stop by in case you were still here. Want to walk home together?”

There’s something hopeful about the way he looks at Akaashi, amber eyes glowing golden in the late-afternoon light, and Akaashi finds himself smiling without really meaning to, feeling a little bit of that warmth bleed out through the space between them and into his own chest. 

“Of course,” Akaashi says, and realizes that it’s maybe always been the fundamental truth in everything he says and does. _Of course_ , like an oath, like that promise he made to himself two weeks after meeting Bokuto for the first time, the promise of something spectacular.

The whole way home, all the way to the place where their paths diverge, Bokuto chatters on and on like he always does, like a whirlwind swirling around Akaashi, unstoppable and all-consuming. Akaashi’s thought for a long time that by all accounts, he should maybe have tried get out, if he had any sense of self-preservation, but Bokuto is one storm he’s never found difficult to weather. 

That night, Akaashi sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks.  
  


* * *

  
Graduation rushes up to meet them before Akaashi knows it, and just like that, Bokuto takes the first step into a future that Akaashi can only imagine. That day, Bokuto shouts Akaashi’s name at the top of his lungs and sprints across the entire school courtyard to all but tackle him in a hug. Cherry blossoms cling to his wild hair, and later, Bokuto will talk him into joining a snowball fight against Komi and Konoha with the petals covering the ground, and Akaashi will roll his eyes ( _can you really call it a snowball fight if it hasn’t snowed in almost two months?_ ) but he’ll walk home with flowers stuck under the collar of his shirt anyways. 

For now, Bokuto just slings his arm around Akaashi’s shoulders and waves around his diploma and says, “Bet you thought you’d never see the day, huh?”

“I’m amazed you had enough passing credits to graduate,” Akaashi agrees, and it’s just teasing, mostly, because for all that he has a tendency to get distracted from the things in front of him, Bokuto is the type of person whose gears are always turning. 

Bokuto pouts. “ _Akaashi!_ ” he whines, but his eyes are still lit like twin suns. 

Akaashi lets himself laugh then, the tiniest sliver of a thing that makes Bokuto’s expression break wide open again, clouds parting easily in the face of something so small a passer-by might not even notice, but there are some things Bokuto has always been good at paying attention to. 

“Hey,” Bokuto says when they’re walking home together later that afternoon.

It’ll be the last time that they’ll have this, this easiness that comes from a very particular kind of muscle memory that’s only won from daily practice. There’s something that feels unbearably heavy about the thought, like they’re right on the precipice of a wide gulf, like they have to make this one count. 

“Yes, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi says, easily, routine, without thinking. 

“When you win at nationals next year,” Bokuto says, everything in his world always a _when_ instead of an _if_ , always a reality instead of a far off possibility, “And you become a famous star, don’t forget about me, ’kay?”

Akaashi almost trips, stunned, but regains his footing before even he realizes it’s been lost. He wants to say that Bokuto’s got it all wrong, that the whole world has been turned on its head, backwards and inside out. He wants to say that Bokuto’s always been the one destined for greatness, that Akaashi’s just been lucky enough to be pulled along by his gravity all this time. But he doesn’t. Can’t. Instead, what he offers — and if he really thinks about it, it might just be good enough anyways — is:

“That’s not likely, Bokuto-san.”

He doesn’t say which part of Bokuto’s statement he means, but he thinks that maybe it doesn’t really matter, in the end.  
  


* * *

  
“ _Akaashi!_ ” Bokuto cheers over the phone in early April, and Akaashi learns that night that Bokuto is very, very fond of video calls when he’s away from home. 

Bokuto’s hair is soft and loose, and Akaashi thinks about the last time he saw Bokuto look like this, early in the morning during their final training camp together, creases still pressed into his cheek from his pillow, and feels something squeeze in his chest. Bokuto’s eyes are bright even through the fuzzy image on the tiny screen of Akaashi’s phone, and he peers curiously at Akaashi like he’s the only thing worth studying. 

“Ooh,” Bokuto says, “The glasses are out. Are you working?”

Akaashi reaches up to push his glasses back up his nose on instinct. “Reading,” he says noncommittally. 

Bokuto squints at him. “For class or for fun?” he asks, and sometimes it still amazes Akaashi how perceptive he can be when he wants. “Because if you’re telling me you’re already knee deep in homework after the first week of school, I’m coming over and stopping you myself.”

Bokuto’s university is forty-five minutes away by train, close but just far enough to be an inconvenience, and that’s the only reason Akaashi doesn’t take him seriously at all. 

Akaashi hums instead of responding and sets his book and his glasses aside, sinking down a little deeper in his bed, cradling his phone carefully in his hands. “How’s life as an undergrad?” he asks. 

Bokuto positively _beams_ at him at the casual question, the kind of brilliant smile that should come with a warning sign. _Caution: may cause temporary blindness._

“ _Amazing_ ,” Bokuto gushes. 

Akaashi wonders sometimes how Bokuto can hold so much enthusiasm, so much wide open curiosity for so many things. It seems like it should be tiring, being dialed up to eleven at any given point in the day, but Bokuto makes it seem easy, rambles on and on like he’ll never stop about his new teammates and classes and how _awesome_ it is that he and Kuroo are roommates. If the universe were a place that made sense, Akaashi would probably find it annoying, because he’s always been a little quiet, a little reserved, prickling at the notion of wearing his heart so blatantly on his sleeve, and from the outside, it probably seems like they’d mix about as well as oil and water. But when Bokuto laughs through the phone and complains about an early class and an even earlier practice he has tomorrow, Akaashi can’t find it in himself to be anything but comforted. It all washes over him like a warm bath, soothing and familiar, and, he supposes, if he’s really being honest with himself, that he’s probably missed Bokuto a little more than he’s cared to admit. 

Akaashi stays up two hours later than he means to and almost oversleeps morning practice, but he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed at that either.  
  


* * *

  
May brings with it warmer days and the anticipation of ramping up through smaller tournaments to the one that really matters. The team’s coming together as well as can be hoped for, but Akaashi still finds himself on edge, nervous maybe for his first big showing as captain. He snaps at one of their new first years one afternoon because there are permission slips he needed yesterday that still haven’t made their way to him and threatens to send the kid home till he comes back with a signed form ( _You’re not going to be any use to this team if you can’t even come to the away games, are you?_ ). He’s maybe being a little mean, a little petty, and part of him knows it, but there’s this tension sitting right between his shoulder blades that he can’t quite work out and all that stress has got to go somewhere. 

“Akaashi, stop scaring the first years. They don’t know when to take you seriously yet.”

Akaashi feels a jolt of something like static electricity shoot up his spine at the familiar voice cutting easily through the air over the sound of balls slamming down against the floor, the familiar long, drawn out syllables of his own name. When he looks up from his clipboard, fingers paused in their count of the stack of papers in his arms, he finds Bokuto grinning at him like he never left, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway to the gym like no time at all has passed and he’s just running late to a practice he should’ve been at half an hour ago. He’s dressed casually in shorts and one of his favorite ridiculous t-shirts and he’s got a bag slung over his shoulder like he’s brought his gear with the intent to play. 

“What are you doing here?” Akaashi asks, his voice coming out perfectly even and steady. 

Bokuto smiles a little wider and bounds over to him, shoes squeaking a little against the wood flooring. Vaguely, Akaashi can hear some of the younger students whispering to each other in between drills ( _Is that him?_ The _Bokuto Koutarou?_ ) and the thought that he should probably tell them to focus on practice and to stop being so impressed with the overgrown child that is his former captain and closest friend floats through the back of his mind, but he’s distracted by Bokuto throwing an arm across his shoulders like it’s old times and leaning maybe too much of his weight onto Akaashi’s slim frame.

“I came to practice of course,” Bokuto says like it’s obvious, all shining eyes and hopeful looks. 

Akaashi rolls his eyes and turns back to sorting through all the paperwork he needs to file in the morning. He feels a smile threatening to pull at the corners of his mouth and twists his mouth to one side to stop it from forming. He’d forgotten, just a little, how hard it always is to resist Bokuto’s infectious cheer.

“This is our last practice before practice matches, Bokuto-san,” he says with well-rehearsed ease. “I’m not tossing for you.”

Bokuto pouts, but Akaashi can tell his heart isn’t really in it, eyes still clever and clear. “After?” Bokuto bargains. 

Akaashi looks at Bokuto, at his wild hair and the untamed energy he always brings with him, at that smile that seems to glow from the inside out, and allows himself a small indulgence. 

“Fine, but don’t disturb practice,” Akaashi says, feeling the corners of his mouth tugging up again. And then he adds when Bokuto’s face lights up, before Bokuto can get too carried away, “I have to be home by eight, and you’re not running off before you help me clean up.”

Bokuto bounces up and down a little on his toes, eager and excited. “Deal.”

Bokuto makes good on his promise and is well-behaved, mostly, for the rest of practice, chatting cheerily with Coach, only occasionally shouting across the gym to Akaashi like he can’t help it ( _Nice one, Akaashi!_ ). Akaashi should probably be a little more bothered by it all than he finds himself, because they really do have things they need to cover before their matches over the weekend and he probably doesn’t have time to be entertaining distractions, but it’s like a release valve has been unlocked in his chest, and all the nervous, restless energy he’s been carrying with him all week has finally found a way to rush out of him. By the time practice is over, he’s starting to feel a little looser again, a little more relaxed, and when he settles into that familiar rhythm with Bokuto again as the others trickle out ( _toss, spike, rinse and repeat_ ), he starts to remember that volleyball is supposed to be fun. 

Bokuto lets out a loud whoop when he nails a particularly good spike and turns to beam at Akaashi. “Did you see that?” he says, eager to please, eager to preen. “That was _it_ , wasn’t it?”

Akaashi feels a vague ache somewhere deep in his chest as Bokuto’s endless passion is directed squarely at him. He remembers seeing Bokuto play for the first time and remembers that same ache, remembers how even as a first year, the promise of something great, something mesmerizing, already lingered around him. Bokuto never looks more alive than when he’s playing, even if it’s just practice, all that fire running through him focused on a single point, and if not for the fact that Akaashi notices that he’s occasionally mistimed a toss or two tonight, just a little bit, already falling out of practice of what it takes to keep up with Bokuto, he really could imagine that come June, they’ll be headed to the Interhigh qualifiers together again. 

“Yes it was, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and this time he doesn’t bother pretending like he isn’t a little pleased too, mirroring Bokuto’s smile with a small one of his own. 

Bokuto laughs and leaps over to land a playful punch on Akaashi’s chest. “There it is!” he cheers. He pokes a finger at Akaashi’s cheek, at the little dimple that forms every time he smiles a little too widely. “There’s the Akaashi I know and love!”

Bokuto doles out love like he racks up points on the court, easy and fervent and always. He’s almost indiscriminate with the way he gives and gives and gives, and Akaashi always finds himself wanting to be greedy, wanting to be selfish and bottle it all up and keep it just for himself, to be uncorked at just the right moments. It’s unfair and unrealistic and he wants it all the same.  
  


* * *

  
Later, if you asked him, Akaashi probably wouldn’t be able to articulate why, exactly, he decided to take such a circuitous route home after the Interhigh qualifiers. Later, he’ll probably chalk it up to something like muscle memory, the way your brain takes you places without your meaning to because you were too distracted to stop yourself. 

In reality, it’s probably something a little more like nostalgia, Akaashi walking home on legs that are sore and a little wobbly, his chest light and full and the high from their victory still buzzing through his veins. His ears are still ringing a little from the cacophony of noise in the gymnasium and the heat isn’t doing anything to help how tired and sweaty he is, and he can’t stop thinking about the last time he’d played on the national stage, thinking about that crisp, cold day in January when it all ended for them last year. He doesn’t think to look up to check where he’s going until his autopilot tells him he should be nearing home, and then he freezes, realizing that he’s walked about ten minutes in the wrong direction, and he has about half a second to process where exactly he is before he hears a voice he’d recognize anywhere. 

Bokuto’s in his yard shouting for his mother, carefully cradling an orchid plant in his hands, roots and loose soil spilling over gloved hands. His two younger siblings are running around him, nearly tripping him as he ventures over to the open door leading into the house and shouts again. His mother comes hurrying out a moment later with a large pot in her hands, shushing him as she waves for him to gently ( _gently, dear, please_ ) place the orchid inside so she can finish repotting it. She’s the one who spots Akaashi first. 

“Ah,” she says when she looks up, “Akaashi-kun. It’s lovely to see you again.”

Bokuto whips his head around so quickly Akaashi, irrationally, worries for a moment that he’ll give himself whiplash. He stares at Akaashi with wide golden eyes, blinking rapidly like he’s trying to be sure he isn’t just seeing things, and then his face breaks out into a wide smile and Akaashi feels something shift in his chest. 

Akaashi opens his mouth to speak, but before he gets the words out, Bokuto’s bounding over to him and gushing, “The finals were today, right? You made it, right?”

And it’s all Akaashi can do to laugh, just a little, in the face of Bokuto’s wild and expansive enthusiasm and say, “Yes. Yes, we did.”

Bokuto cheers, pumping his fists like it’s his victory still, and then before Akaashi can even think to stop him, he tosses his gardening gloves aside and leaps over the hedges marking the border of his yard to grab Akaashi by the arm, calling over his shoulder, “Gotta go celebrate, Ma! I’ll be back later!”

Akaashi barely has time to bow and mouth _sorry_ to Bokuto’s mother before he’s all but hauled off down the street, but she just laughs and calls after him to make sure Bokuto doesn’t get into too much trouble. 

“Where are we going?” Akaashi asks, stumbling, a little off balance, Bokuto’s hand at his elbow simultaneously steadying and knocking him off-kilter. 

Bokuto grins at Akaashi through a sidelong glance, not slowing down for a second, and says, like it’s obvious, “We’re getting ice cream.” 

There’s a part of Akaashi that knows he could protest and put his foot down and insist that Bokuto let him go home, because he really is tired and it’s hot out and he has a mountain of homework he needs to finish that’s all fallen to the wayside thanks to this weekend’s games. It’s maybe the part of himself he should listen to, because time isn’t endless and there are always things that need to be done and Akaashi knows that he runs the risk of spiraling out of he puts off too much for too long. But time isn’t endless and Bokuto’s visiting home from college for the weekend and he’s laughing and smiling at Akaashi like Akaashi’s just given him the world, and Akaashi thinks to himself that, well, there are other things that can be important too. So he lets Bokuto pull him down the block to the little ice cream shop Bokuto used to beg to go to every day after practice in the summer, lets Bokuto buy him a towering cone of melty, strawberry flavored ice cream, lets himself sit on the curb next to Bokuto with ice cream slowly dripping down his fingers and Bokuto talking a mile a minute in his ear. 

“You better win this year,” Bokuto says, like he’ll will it into existence himself if he has to. 

Akaashi nibbles on the end of his cone, staring up into the clear blue sky. “I hope so,” he says, thinking again, suddenly, of January and the sound of that final whistle ringing in his ears. 

“You will,” Bokuto says, a little quieter now, a little more earnest. 

When Akaashi turns to look at him, Bokuto’s got that determined set in his brow, that fierce edge to his eyes like there’s nothing in the world that could stop him, and for a moment Akaashi can’t breathe. He’s never known what to do with this, all this unwavering spirit and trust that Bokuto aims his way, so strong it almost hurts, and it’s probably something he should’ve figured out by now, because they’ve been friends for years and Akaashi’s always been good at solving puzzles, but there’s something about Bokuto that’s always been a bit of a blind spot for him. 

Akaashi jumps a little when he feels Bokuto’s fingers on his cheek, brushing away something almost absently. 

“You got some ice cream on your face,” Bokuto says and then licks his thumb. Akaashi stares. Bokuto flashes Akaashi a playful smile. “You know, you can be kind of a messy eater sometimes.”

Akaashi’s skin suddenly feels two sizes too small for his body, and he’s standing before he knows it, feeling a little out of breath. “I’m going home,” he says, as even as he knows how, and for once is glad for how little he tends to let slip through his voice. 

He starts walking without waiting for a response, and he hears Bokuto scrambling behind him, imagines how he must look, limbs flailing and eyes wide, and feels his chest ache. 

“ _Akaashi!_ ”  
  


* * *

  
Fukuroudani loses in the semifinals at Interhigh. It stings, but Akaashi goes home that day feeling not quite as raw as he remembers from the last time he tried and failed to win that national title. It’s hot that night and he lays sprawled out across his bed on top of all of his bedsheets, listening to the quiet rustle of nighttime noises through his open window and cursing the fact that the air conditioning in his house isn’t working. He replays the day in his head and ticks off every way he could’ve done better, could’ve _been_ better. He’s in his third year now, and he knows he’ll stay on till spring because he’s never quit at anything his entire life, but he’s starting to feel in earnest the slow creep of time inching up on him. 

His phone rings at about two hours into his rumination, dragging him out of the ball of nerves he’s managed to work himself into. Bokuto’s name flashes across his phone’s screen, and Akaashi finds himself smiling for maybe the first time since arriving home. 

“ _Akaashi_ ,” Bokuto drawls in greeting, drawing out the syllables until his name is all vowels. 

Bokuto says Akaashi’s name like he’s been repeating Akaashi’s name over and over again until Akaashi picked up, and in the background, Akaashi can hear the faint din of music and shouting voices, slightly muffled like it’s coming from another room. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies, and his voice is maybe just a touch quieter than usual. 

Akaashi can almost hear Bokuto perk up. “Hey!” he says, words tumbling out almost too quickly, like he’s tripping over them. “Hi, I— Oh wait. Shit. Did I wake you up? What time is it?”

There’s some shuffling like Bokuto’s actually trying to check the time. Akaashi waits a moment for it to settle down before saying, “Its only eleven. You didn’t wake me.” 

“Oh,” Bokuto says, and then he laughs, something about it sounding clumsier than usual. “Good.”

In the background, someone calls Bokuto’s name, and Akaashi hears Bokuto shout back ( _I’m busy!_ ) and sends a silent thank you out into the universe that Bokuto remembered to angle his mouth away from the phone before the outburst. 

“Are you at a party?” Akaashi asks. He thinks about the stumbling way Bokuto’s been talking into his ear and adds, “Are you drunk?”

Bokuto makes a sort of soft scoffing sound like he’s offended by the question, but it sounds just left of truly sincere. “Not the point, Akaashi,” he says, maybe a little petulant. 

He pauses a moment like he’s expecting Akaashi to chide him, but Akaashi just asks, maybe feeling a little indulgent, “Oh? Then what is the point?”

Bokuto laughs, his energy ratcheting back up in an instant. “The _point_ ,” he says emphatically, “Is that I know you lost today and a good senpai never leaves his favorite kouhai hanging, so I’m cheering you up!”

Akaashi feels a painful tug at his chest at the same time he feels his stomach do that swooping thing it does sometimes when Bokuto smiles at him full force. “Bokuto-san, I’m fine,” Akaashi says, so firmly he almost believes it himself. “You didn’t have to call me just for that.”

“Uh-uh,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi can almost picture the way he must be vigorously shaking his head. “You can’t trick me. You’ve probably been nitpicking at yourself all night, haven’t you?”

Akaashi laughs softly but doesn’t say anything, because there’s nothing really to say. Bokuto is sharp and incisive when he wants to be, and Akaashi’s been told time and time again that he’s all but unreadable, but Bokuto has this way of peeling back all the layers anyways, like he can see right to Akaashi’s core. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, and his words are a little sloppy and slurred together, but his voice is earnest and serious. “You listen to me, okay? You’re gonna lead this team to victory. I know it. Because you’re brilliant and talented and you work harder than anyone. You’re the smartest and prettiest person I know, Akaashi. You’re going to be amazing.”

For a moment, Akaashi can’t say anything, his breath hitching in his throat. Even after more than two years of knowing him, it still sometimes throws Akaashi for a loop, the way Bokuto hands out praise like candy, the unabashed honesty he brings to everything he says and does. 

“I’m pretty sure the way I look is entirely uncorrelated with our chances of winning,” Akaashi says, but even he can tell how soft and fond his voice sounds. 

Bokuto huffs out a breath. “I’m just trying to pump you up, okay?” he says, insistent. Akaashi’s reminded not for the first time of why, despite what anyone outside of all this might think, he’s never minded the responsibility of building Bokuto back up when he falls apart, because it’s never been so one-sided, because it’s never been about just putting up with Bokuto’s antics, because Bokuto is the type of person who gives as much as he gets. Akaashi can almost hear Bokuto grinning through the phone when he asks eagerly, “Did it work?”

Akaashi feels warm all over in a way that has nothing to do with the summer heat wave, the anxiety in his chest knocked loose in favor of something comforting and quiet. He closes his eyes as a light breeze from his open window dances across his skin and thinks to himself that maybe things happen for a reason after all. 

“Yes, Bokuto-san.”  
  


* * *

  
Late September rain falls in a constant, drumming curtain around the gym when practice ends, and when Akaashi steps out into the covered walkway, the humidity clings to his skin and he curses the fact that today, of all days, he’d forgotten to bring an umbrella with him. He crouches to rummage through his bag, wondering if it’s worth sacrificing a binder to stay slightly less wet on the walk home, and then he notices a ring of dry ground where there was none a moment ago and looks up. 

Bokuto stands just outside the walkway, umbrella leaning on one shoulder, and in the milky light, it circles his head like a halo. His features look soft and almost delicate in the muted atmosphere, and as he smiles down at Akaashi, his mouth pulled up a little crooked and the sharp angle of his eyebrows smoothing out into something almost warm and kind, Akaashi finds himself at a loss for words. He remembers falling asleep talking to Bokuto in the wee hours of the morning after calling him to wish him a happy birthday at the stroke of midnight because Bokuto loves his birthday more than anything else. He remembers oversleeping his alarm and having to race to school to make it to practice on time and just barely remembering to bring all his volleyball gear, much less anything he’d need if the already gloomy weather took a turn for the worse. He remembers how the string of new texts he’d woken up to, thank you’s for birthday wishes accompanied by more owl and heart shaped emojis than Akaashi knew existed, had almost made it all worth it. But in all of that, Bokuto didn’t mention once that he’d be coming home for the weekend, and it makes Akaashi feel a sort of ache deep in his bones that he can’t quite explain. 

“Your mom called,” Bokuto says by way of greeting. “Said you might’ve forgotten to bring an umbrella this morning, so I came by to check on you.”

Akaashi clears his throat as he straightens up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Oh,” he says, wondering why his tongue feels so awkward and clumsy in his mouth. “Thanks.”

Bokuto grins and holds out his umbrella a little to make room for Akaashi, and when Akaashi ducks under, Bokuto says, “Did I surprise you?”

Akaashi arches an eyebrow at Bokuto as they start their walk home. Raindrops splash a little against Akaashi’s right hand for a moment before he draws it back in, brushing the water off, but under the umbrella, he feels safe and almost cozy. The pitter-patter of rain against it creates a curtain of noise that envelopes them as easily as the downpour, and if Akaashi let himself, he could almost imagine that this is the beginning and end of the entire world, just the two of them, huddled together and bumping shoulders and talking in hushed tones. 

“I’m surprised you actually own an umbrella,” Akaashi says, because the feeling stuck at the back of his throat won’t let him say anything else. “If I’d known, I never would’ve been so generous with mine the past couple years.”

Bokuto laughs, booming against the muffled quiet of the street around them. “Hey now, it’s my birthday. Be nice,” he says, but his eyes are twinkling. He leans his face a little closer to Akaashi’s and tries again, “Are you surprised I came to pick you up?”

The corner of Akaashi’s mouth twitches, but all he says is, “Aren’t your friends supposed to surprise you on your birthday?”

Bokuto shrugs peeking up at the grey sky. His hair is unstyled and a little damp like maybe the rain ruined his usual dramatic updo or maybe he hadn’t bothered this morning, opting to spend that extra time instead running around and trying to catch raindrops in his mouth. It makes him look a little softer around the edges and younger than he usually does, and Akaashi feels his fingers twitch, irrationally wanting to run them through Bokuto’s hair to see how soft it is without all that gel, but he twists them together instead and turns his gaze forward. 

“Yeah I guess,” Bokuto says cheerily. “But it’s more exciting like this, don’t you think? I like surprising you.”

Akaashi’s traitor heart stutters in his chest for a brief moment. “What makes you so sure I like being surprised?” he asks. 

Bokuto laughs again, the umbrella shaking a little with the force of it. Akaashi’s right sleeve gets sprayed with rain, an almost welcome relief against too-warm skin. 

“Everyone likes surprises, Akaashi,” Bokuto says and kicks a puddle on the ground to splash Akaashi’s feet. He smiles at Akaashi, that glowing thing that has the incredible ability to make Akaashi feel like he’s the only person left in the world, and Akaashi’s never really known if this is something reserved for just him or if that’s just a delusion he’s let himself get used to over the years, but he smiles back and thinks to himself that maybe it doesn’t matter, in the end. Maybe what matters most is just that he gets to have this moment, right here, in a way that no one will be able to replicate or take away from him.  
  


* * *

  
( When Akaashi’s birthday rolls around, Bokuto’s in the middle of studying for finals, but Akaashi wakes up in the morning to a text from Bokuto that reads _happy bday!!!! u better do smth fun today!!!!!_ accompanied by a slightly blurry selfie of Bokuto wearing a party hat and surrounded by a mess of schoolwork and Kuroo in the background pulling a face. The timestamp reads exactly midnight, like Bokuto wanted to be the first person to say it to him, and even though Akaashi has a pop quiz in English that day and practice mostly consists of doing endless conditioning drills until his legs feel like jelly and he almost slips and falls on a patch of ice walking home, Akaashi goes to bed that day thinking that it’s been a pretty good birthday, all things considered. It helps that Bokuto calls at around ten that night and talks his ear off for about an hour before Akaashi passes out, phone still in hand, but that’s not something anyone needs to know about. )  
  


* * *

  
When left to his own devices, without the regularity of school and practice keeping him on track, Akaashi has a tendency to stay up progressively later as breaks go on. It always starts as a sort of slow creep, staying up till midnight or maybe just past reading a book or catching up on some TV shows, and he doesn’t really mean to but by the time break is drawing to a close, he’ll almost certainly have accidentally watched the sun rise at least once or twice. It’s bad and he knows it’s bad, but he’s always been a bit of a night owl and there are just some habits that are hard to break. 

When Christmas rolls around, Akaashi’s at the point where he’s pretending that telling himself he’ll sleep at one or two in the morning isn’t easily going to translate into sleeping at three and running the risk of waking up after noon and having his mother _tsk_ at him and launch into a lecture about how boys his age need to keep a regular sleep schedule. He’s curled up in his bed with three different blankets piled on top of him and he keeps telling himself that he’ll read just one more chapter and then he’ll sleep. He’s a fast reader, he reasons, it won’t take that long. And he sort of knows he’s lying to himself, that time will run away from him before he knows it, but tonight, at least, he’s interrupted before the train can careen off course. 

At around midnight, Akaashi hears a sharp _clack_ against his window, and he thinks for a moment that he’s just imagining things but then he hears it again. When he sets his book aside and ventures over to peer out of his window, he’s rewarded by the sight of Bokuto standing in his yard below, bundled up in a thick winter coat and a cozy scarf, cheeks red and waving eagerly at Akaashi like it isn’t the middle of the night in the dead of winter. Bokuto lets a small handful of pebbles drop from his hand and disappear into the snow beneath him. When Akaashi slides his window open just a crack, he’s hit by a blast of cold air, and he crosses his arms, frowning. 

“What are you doing here?” he stage-whispers down to Bokuto. 

Bokuto laughs, maybe just too loud for the late hour. “Merry Christmas!” he calls up in very much not a whisper. 

Akaashi shushes him. “My parents are asleep,” he says, sounding probably more irritated than he actually feels. 

“Then come down here and I won’t have to shout,” Bokuto bargains. 

He’s not really shouting, not by any standards and certainly not by Bokuto’s, but it’s an offering, an excuse that Akaashi can tell himself if he feels the need to justify something so silly to himself. Akaashi doesn’t, not really, but he supposes it’s kind of sweet, in its own way, and the thought carries him downstairs to pull on a coat and venture outside, hoping he won’t catch a cold. The winter chill nips at his cheeks and the tip of his nose, but Bokuto beams at him when Akaashi trudges across the yard to meet him halfway. 

“This couldn’t have waited till morning?” Akaashi asks. 

Little flurries of snow drift down gently around them, catching in Bokuto’s hair, on the tips of his eyelashes. Akaashi shoves his hands in his pockets, wanting a little bit to reach up and brush the snowflakes away. 

“Of course not,” Bokuto says. He thrusts a carefully, if not neatly, wrapped gift towards Akaashi. “My gift has to be the first one you open.”

The corner of Akaashi’s mouth turns up into a smile that he’s sure looks about two degrees too fond and he shakes his head but reaches out to accept the gift. 

“What if my family opens gifts on Christmas Eve?” he says, voice sly but only teasing. 

Bokuto’s eyes widen, impossibly gold in the dim light. “Do you?” he asks, sounding almost horrified that he hadn’t considered the possibility. 

Akaashi feels his chest tighten, like all the air has been sucked out. “No,” he says quietly, and watches as Bokuto’s shoulders fall slack, relieved. “But we could have.”

“ _Akaashi_ ,” Bokuto whines, wincing a little and clapping a hand over his mouth when Akaashi shushes him again. Bokuto’s next words come out a little muffled, his hand still over his mouth, and he sounds a little petulant but there’s still a warmth in his voice like he knows they’re just playing a game. “It’s Christmas! Don’t be so mean.”

Akaashi laughs and ducks his chin, looking down at the wrapped package Bokuto’s given him. The bright paper is wrapped around something misshapen and soft, and Akaashi tugs at the tape holding it all together with deliberate care, slowly until Bokuto starts bouncing on his toes a little. Bokuto lets out a quiet huff of impatience and his mouth is pressed into a small frown, eyebrows furrowed as he tries and tries to hold back, and after a moment, Akaashi relents and tears the rest of the paper off. For a second, Akaashi’s too distracted by the way that Bokuto’s face lights up expectantly, keen eyes turned to watch Akaashi’s reaction, but then Akaashi looks down at the gift in his hands and feels that heavy sensation that’s been sitting in his chest rise up to his throat. 

Sitting in his palms are two little crocheted owls, one dappled in grey and black and white and the other more solid brown. They look handmade, a tuft of yarn sticking out here and there where maybe Bokuto wasn’t so careful, and Akaashi tries to imagine how long it must’ve taken and comes up feeling a little breathless. 

“Do you like ’em?” Bokuto asks, and his voice is rising a bit again but Akaashi doesn’t have the heart to tell him to quiet down. “My big sister’s really crafty, right? So, she showed me how to do this, and I was thinking, you know, it’s kind of like they’re us!”

Bokuto rambles on and on, telling him about going yarn shopping with his sister and _did you know, Akaashi, that there are so many different kinds of yarn_ and how his sister laughed at him every time he messed up and had to start over again. Somewhere in the back of Akaashi’s mind, he recognizes the slight nervous tremor running through Bokuto’s voice, recognizes that he’s doing that thing he does sometimes like if he just keeps talking then bad things won’t have the chance to happen. Somewhere, absently, Akaashi realizes he should probably say something. But all he can do is stare, at the way the moonlight casts Bokuto’s face in soft shadows, the way the snowflakes catching on his hair and his scarf and his eyelashes make him look almost delicate in a way that seems impossible when you first meet him. Bokuto talks with his hands and his eyes and his whole body, all moving at once to tell this story just right, and even though it’s freezing out and all Akaashi’s wearing against the chill is a single jacket, Akaashi finds himself feeling almost too warm. Being friends with Bokuto is like having your own personal sun sometimes, he thinks, not for the first time, and even in the middle of the night, it’s almost blinding. 

“And you know,” Bokuto’s saying now around a sort of awkward laugh, scratching at the back of his neck, “It’s okay if you don’t like it. It’s kind of a weird gift, I guess, but I—”

“Thank you,” Akaashi says suddenly, quietly, finally finding his voice under the years of feeling narrowing down to this one point. 

He closes his fingers around the little owls, and Bokuto smiles, all at once relaxing into that wide, lazy grin that Akaashi’s grown so fond of, all the anxiety rising high in his voice from just seconds before melting away in favor of something tender and soft. Bokuto’s hands still by his sides and he stops shifting his weight from one foot to the other. There’s a particular brand of quiet that only Bokuto, out of everyone Akaashi’s ever met, can summon, a quiet that doesn’t feel like quiet, because nothing about Bokuto has ever been that. It’s a kind of stillness that rings loudly in Akaashi’s ears, Bokuto looking at him like he’d give Akaashi the entire universe if he could. 

Akaashi smiles a little too, feeling a blush creep all the way down his neck, a little thankful for the cover of the cold around them, and he thinks that maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea after all, venturing out into the snow in the middle of the night. That maybe, even if he ends up coming down with a cold in the morning, it’ll have been worth it for this. For him.  
  


* * *

  
In bright, chilly January, one year after Akaashi felt a kind of cold he’d thought might never leave his bones, he returns to the national stage. It’s a new team and new faces made familiar over the past year, and Fukuroudani’s play style has shifted into something a little quieter, a little subtler under his lead than the explosive showing they had in last year’s finals, but as Akaashi steps off of the bus in front of the gymnasium that holds his fate within its walls, he feels a familiar thread of anticipation, of anxiety start to run up his spine. One year, he thinks, and wonders what he really has to show for it. One year, he thinks, and wonders if he’ll fall just short again. 

Akaashi suddenly hears his name being called out over the white noise of teams gathering and bystanders trickling in, debating excitedly over who they think will win it all this year, and there’s an odd moment where his whole chest seizes up. Something caught halfway between panic and excitement fills his lungs like helium, and for a brief second, he can’t quite breathe. But then a strong hand is landing on his back, a familiar arm draping across his shoulders, and it all gets knocked loose. 

“Big day!” Bokuto cheers, all shining eyes and boundless energy. “You excited?”

Bokuto stands next to Akaashi, bundled up in a puffy jacket and a scarf instead of Fukuroudani black and white and gold, but he’s grinning at Akaashi like he’s in it with him all the same, like they could still take the court together, like he hasn’t forgotten. It’s almost strange, seeing him dressed down and casual at a place like this, seeing him and realizing he won’t be going with Akaashi to the court but rather up to the stands as a spectator, and Akaashi suddenly feels restless and antsy. 

“Yeah,” Akaashi says, and even he can hear how weak his voice sounds, heart in his throat. 

Bokuto lets his arm fall from Akaashi’s shoulders and takes half a step back to look at him for a long moment, expressive eyebrows pulled into a frown, and Akaashi could fight back if he wanted, probably, could brush it all off as just a slip of the tongue, but there’s a part of him that almost wants to be seen. He’s never been very good at this, at holding it all together like he knows he needs to when the rubber hits the road, when it’s all on his shoulders, and he knows he can’t do it alone, knows that he needs something, if not what that something is. 

Bokuto looks around, a little conspiratorial like he’s about to divulge some kind of secret, and then he places a hand at Akaashi’s elbow and pulls him away from the crowd at the entrance to the gymnasium. 

“Come on,” he says and guides Akaashi to the side of the building, out of the way of the throng of people gathered to watch the day’s matches, where it’s quiet and empty and calm. “Akaashi—”

“I _know_ ,” Akaashi breathes out in a rush, remembering being on the receiving end of the encouragement that lives in the space between them last year, remembering every careful careless word. He tries to inhale and exhale on counts of five. 

Bokuto’s expression softens in a way Akaashi can’t quite describe. “Do you?” Bokuto says gently, gentle in a way that only he can manage. “Because you know, no matter what happens, you’re never going to let anyone down.” Bokuto smiles like he’s figured out a puzzle that Akaashi can’t even see. “You probably don’t realize, because I don’t think you know any other way to play, but giving your all in every match? That’s hard, you know, and you make it look so easy.”

Akaashi stares at Bokuto and wonders how it is that someone managed to learn to read him so well, wonders how it is that even after all this time away, Bokuto needs only to take one look at him and know exactly what he needs to hear. He wonders what else he missed when he wasn’t looking, when he got so caught up in his own head that the rest of the world ceased to exist. 

Bokuto draws in a breath and adds softly, like he’s confessing to something that was maybe never meant to be heard by the wrong people, “National title or not, you’ve done something almost no one else can do. You’re amazing, Akaashi, maybe the most amazing person I know. One game isn’t going to change that.”

Akaashi’s heart pounds in his chest, so loudly it almost drowns out the low tone of Bokuto’s voice. He could lie and write it off as just the nerves toying with the shakiness of his hands, but he knows that there’s something more than just that, knows that it has been for some time now. Akaashi’s never said it, not even really to himself, but somewhere in between extra practices and late-night study sessions that sometimes devolved into movie nights and learning so well the shape of the space another person leaves behind when they move, the wires got all crossed. Because in the middle of all that, in the middle of all the drills and setting till he thought his arms would fall off and the matches that just kept getting better and better, there’s been all this too. This, the way Bokuto looks at him like he couldn’t ever do anything wrong. This, the way Bokuto’s wild, unrestrained energy is somehow the most soothing thing in Akaashi’s entire world. This, the way Bokuto always knows just what to say when that’s supposed to be Akaashi’s job, the way he’s been filing away all of Akaashi’s quirks and oddities and weaknesses just like Akaashi has for Bokuto. 

The anxiety that’s been sitting firmly in Akaashi’s stomach all morning long has melted away easily under Bokuto’s warm gaze, but Akaashi feels no less restless. One way or another, today marks the end of Akaashi’s high school volleyball career, and a whole new world looms out foreign and unknown ahead of him. He has no idea what’s supposed to come next, what the _after_ will be like once all is said and done, but what he does know is that Bokuto’s here in front of him, looking at him with those brilliant golden eyes like Akaashi’s the most precious thing in the world, and he’s smiling and beautiful and maybe, Akaashi thinks, waiting for something. Akaashi looks at Bokuto, at this boy he’s promised the entire world to but only ever silently, and thinks to himself _when did you become this person to me?_ Thinks, _why have I been letting myself run away from this for so long?_ Thinks, _what are endings for, if I can’t be a little brave?_

Akaashi takes half a step forward and lifts a hand to tip Bokuto’s face towards him just so and kisses him. It’s a soft, quick thing, like he’s making a promise to something, and Bokuto stares at him with wide eyes when he draws away just a moment later. 

“Akaashi?” Bokuto breathes, almost whispers. His eyes are bright and his voice has this tentative, hopeful edge to it like he’s been trying not to let himself dream impossible dreams, and the slightest hint of a blush creeps up high on his cheeks. 

Akaashi feels his own face heat up but he clears his throat and doesn’t let his gaze waver, saying, sly and silly and maybe a little stupid, “For good luck.”

There’s a beat, and then Bokuto’s face breaks out into a wide grin, so bright Akaashi can hardly believe this is something that can be contained within a single human being. He leans into Akaashi’s space, like he always does, like he never does, strong hands landing on Akaashi’s hips. 

“Better do it again,” Bokuto says, playful. “Just to be safe.”

Akaashi lets out a laugh in a sharp breath, unable to stop the way his mouth curves up to mirror Bokuto’s, and he closes the distance between them to meet Bokuto halfway. Bokuto kisses like he does everything else, enthusiastically and endlessly and completely. He kisses like there’s no end to how much love and care he can offer, and Akaashi feels himself, foolishly, wanting to figure out how much further it’ll go for him than for anyone else. When Akaashi tries to pull away this time, Bokuto doesn’t let him, his hands coming up to cup Akaashi’s face so he can press light kisses to his forehead, the tip of his nose, each of his cheeks, the corners of his mouth. It’s ridiculous and overwhelming and perfect, and Akaashi laughs and laughs and laughs, his nerves from earlier seeming like a far-off dream. 

“Bokuto-san, I have to go,” Akaashi says, not half as stern as he means to be. Bokuto makes him want to laugh forever. “I’m captain. I can’t be late to my own warmups.”

“Hang on,” Bokuto says around that dazzling smile. He presses another quick kiss to Akaashi’s mouth. “I gotta make sure you’re the luckiest guy on the court.”

Akaashi rolls his eyes and shoves at Bokuto’s chest a little half-heartedly, thinking to himself that he probably already is, all things considered.  
  


* * *

  
( This time, Fukuroudani wins. After the game, Bokuto comes barreling through the lobby of the gymnasium, shouting Akaashi’s name at the top of his lungs, his voice rising high above all the other noise filling the space. Akaashi barely has the time to brace himself before Bokuto all but tackles him in a hug, picking him up and spinning him around and laughing and laughing and laughing. It’s not like it’s even Bokuto’s win anymore, his sights set on bigger and better victories to be had at his university and beyond, but his eyes are as bright as Akaashi has ever seen and he’s looking at Akaashi like Akaashi’s gone and stolen the moon for him. Bokuto’s grinning from ear to ear like he’ll never stop, and he kisses Akaashi in front of everyone without a care in the world. Akaashi would maybe try to find it in himself to be embarrassed, to maybe say that there’s a time and a place and it’s maybe not here, in front of all his teammates, except that at the end of it all, all he can think about is his many hours of hard work, all the long days and sprained ankles and jammed fingers, all the missed high school experiences given up in the hopes of something greater, and he thinks about this, here, now, about how his chest feels like a dam about to burst with all the ecstatic feeling he’s trying to keep contained within him, and he thinks to himself, _well, what was it all for, if not for this?_ )

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments/kudos are always so very appreciated!
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://youichi-kuramochi.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/kura_ryous) if you like!


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